


hempel's raven

by Elisye



Series: outside of the golden land [6]
Category: Clockwork (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, dial the void for help with your procrastination, mage!Christian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 22:56:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5720065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisye/pseuds/Elisye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Christian is surprisingly sober despite being drunk, and Gaz is just himself.</p><p>(And days later, Gaz thinks to himself - maybe, Christian wasn't referring to the murders that night.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	hempel's raven

**Author's Note:**

> gigantic shrug of procrastination
> 
> also quiet headcanon for mage!chris - in canon he's probably more cheery and open or something when drunk, so in this AU he's similarly more honest about stuff. except, ofc, being honest also includes reflecting on some unpleasant things that he's kept tucked away the whole while ww. so he's more of a honest but kinda sad drunk. wwwwwww
> 
> [hempel's raven](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raven_paradox) is a real-o concept btw.

The chandeliers are bright, bright - too bright.

Gaz squints at them, the ragged brim of his hat blocking out most of the orange glare. His wine glass, filled with half-drunk champagne or some other fancy drink, tilts dangerously close out of his hands, the thin handle being absently rolled between his fingers with thought. The room is quiet, too quiet, awfully quiet - he's far too used to noise, to some bustle, to at least whispers and murmurs echoing through dirty tents and clipped-up handspun cotton. Silence is for that poignant hour of the night, too brief to be remembered, but long enough to make itself known. Silence, for him, is especially for those instances in narrow alleyways, where aristocrats distastefully bring up their dirty business, scrunching their noses at the smell of soot and booze while still remarking on how convenient such places were.

They were all such hypocrites, and Gaz knows that. Knows that well, and doesn't care.

People could do whatever, after all. That's what the right to freedom and choice meant, right?

He sniffs a bit that, a bit of dust caught in his nose coincidentally. Really, he doesn't care much for what others did, much less the nobility on their fancy high horses - it only became a problem if it got in his own way much too often, and with consequences he can't easily patch up with a few more pulled strings and scare to no sacrifices. Which actually doesn't occur that often, thankfully, but that's perhaps because each side knew where to draw their boundaries. Issues like that only cropped up when someone in the catacomb got too frustrated with the notion of prejudice and mistreatment, or when a pretty young noble got too hotheaded and high on their illusionary power. (There is no such thing as power. There is only influence. There is no such thing as rank and blessed blood, only people entitled to their thoughts, and with all the freedom to impose them wherever.)

The brunet shifts his head slightly, leaning back against the maroon sofa, a small noise whining from the back of his throat when it doesn't feel as comfortable as he thought - carved wood pokes the back of his neck, smooth but not exactly soft to keep leaning against. To distract himself a little, he takes a sip, and lazily stares to his right, where Christian sits in utter silence, brooding over something. It's funny, Gaz thinks, to see a brooding face on a man like that. Cogschmidt or Kleinshcogs (or something like that) told enough passing stories about how the scientist was more of a party goer with his drinks—cheerful, a bit loud, sometimes easily swayed to do something stupid, but not really because he was far too responsible with himself, and tried to be that way for everyone else's sake. The last part sounds very fitting, for a man who cares too much about caring for others.

He thinks there's a word for that - pathology, or something. An intense, death-defying and death-inducing notion. 

(What kind of person cares for their loved ones to that point? Gaz doesn't know, but he gets an inkling that it's similar to what he, as the ringleader of the poor, would feel, but more strongly and more from the heart. Gaz only feels disappointed and somewhat cranky when he loses the people around him - all of his usable resources are required to keep everyone else alive, after all.)

Maybe feeling his stare, Christian blinks up, tearing away from his long staring session with the night-time windows to Gaz, blinking some more, and then smiling. A reflex, almost. "Pretty quiet night, huh?"

"Silence is a bore, scientist," he drawls back, humored and meaning it. "Means nothing's happening. Nothing fun and interesting."

"Some people like it if nothing happens."

"Not me, then. Nothing happens if nothing happens."

Christian takes a moment to process that - he's had his fair share of alcohol tonight, surprisingly more than Gaz himself. Would be understandable if he was sloshed to near-incomprehension, really. Instead, the scientist just seems incredibly sober, with a slight frown. Huh.

"...I guess, that's true." Scientist Man leans back into the sofa too, head resting lightly against the wood. He leans back in a way that he seems to curl himself in, just a little. "But—and I guess, this is pretty controversial—I like it that way. If nothing keeps happening. Because then, nothing will happen. It's like... I don't know how to say it, people just stay safe that way?"

Gaz isn't quite liking where that might go, but - oh well. The conversation already started. "Talking about the murders, hmm? Well, even if you aren't, it's a fool's dream to wish for everyone's safety. Life isn't so sweet that we will perpetually have that leisure - to live long and happily, without some pains." He pauses, observing the seemingly darkening contours on the other's face. "Though, I suppose, one can still hold onto it. Hoping is an important quality of dreams, after all."

Christian doesn't respond immediately. Instead, he stares at the scare drops of white wine in his own glass, turning it over and over and over. And then - "I know that."

Simplistic, and quaint. Gaz can't pinpoint what exactly that's meant to be a response to, though - but maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe it shouldn't matter too much. He decides not to make any kind of commentary on it. (In those small words, there is a shackled weight of someone enlightened beyond their demeanor. There is the shadow of someone who smiles like a hypocrite - praying on shooting stars when they know they will never come true. Nobility is always like that, with beautiful play-pretense on the surface, and the contrary on the inside. And sometimes, it seems, that opposing duality works out in ways other than arrogance and blue blood pride. Looks like, no matter how different Christian is from most nobles, he isn't exempt from their likeness completely. A bit of an unpleasant conclusion, but he's still a fine person to swindle some food from, no?)

The conversation ends there, and silence swallows the rest of the night. Gaz almost thinks to ruminate on what his friendly neighboring scientist might be hiding under his sanitation gloves, but he passes out in his rag pile bed and forgets about it for a long time.


End file.
